


Ravenous

by libraryv



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-09-27 08:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20404510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Dolokhov and Clara are recently engaged, are reunited after Dolokhov returns from an army campaign, and can't keep their hands off each other.





	1. Whetting Appetites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbeshalftail3469](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbeshalftail3469/gifts).

> Shameless Dolokhov being delicious, because that's the mood I'm in. :D
> 
> For hobbeshalftail3469, because she's responsible for this, really. *grins*

“And this is the library,” declared Natasha to the small group of women.

Their new estate was very grand; Natasha was showing it proudly, and with good reason. Pierre had spared no expense in fulfilling every request she had. The library was beautiful, and in the soft candlelight, Clara could see shelves upon shelves of handsome leather volumes.

Clara smiled to herself: she was thinking of the last time she had been in a library. A sensory flash as memory supplied her with a replica of feeling; Dolokhov moving inside her, his thrusts strong, his length filling her; complete abandon to his touch.

That passionate moment had been months ago. Clara had not seen him since the days following their engagement; Dolokhov was currently on a prisoner-of-war campaign with his regiment. They were due back tomorrow, and the thought of seeing him contributed to the fluttering swoop in her stomach as much as the memory of their encounter in the library.

“Clara, when do we meet your Captain Dolokhov?” The women looked over, curious. 

“Natasha tells us he is quite a fine specimen.” There was giggling in the group, then a peppering of questions and exclamations.

“I have seen him before; he is very handsome, but very wicked indeed.”

“I’ve heard the most awful stories. Is it true that he tied a man to a bear in the streets?”

“Or that he gambles and drinks and does what he likes?”

“He is a war hero, and very brave – but ruthless and ferocious, too.”

“They say he has done the most inappropriate things to ladies in alcoves – you should not let yourself be alone with him.”

There was nervous tittering at this; none of them could imagine being swept away during a public dance, to be at the mercy of such a reputed scoundrel.

Nadya clicked her tongue. She admired Clara’s beauty and elegance, but did not approve of scandal.

“He is quite shocking; I cannot believe you gave up your title for a man like that.”

“She doesn’t care,” said Natasha, raising her eyebrows playfully. 

Clara smiled. 

“That is true.” She gave a little bow as they walked down the hall. “I can be rather shocking, myself.”

“I heard you sat down at the men’s card table at parties! And _played!”_

They collapsed into giggles again, and Clara grinned. 

They reached the ballroom, and Clara’s heart thrilled at the sight. The orchestra launched into another song, and hundreds of bodies bowed and curved, meeting together and breaking apart, twirling in rhythm. 

The women stood watching, and immediately, a haughty-looking gentleman approached Clara.

He bowed imperiously.

“You will dance with me,” he said, rising, his hooded eyes fixed firmly on the neckline of her dress. He finally looked into her face.

“You are not spoken for.”

“I think you will find that she is,” said a commanding voice behind her, causing her breath to catch, as she turned around to see Dolokhov.

He was in uniform, and he looked as if he had come from another world; one more untamed than the glittering ballroom in which they stood. Clara could feel her friends staring; he had a long red cut down one cheek, and his collar was open at the neck, lending him a slight air of wildness. 

He was gazing intensely at Clara; she experienced a rush of heat. It was hard to believe this fierce-looking man was to be her husband, that yesterday he had been made of memory and letters, and now he was flesh and blood in front of her.

“Will you dance with me, Clara?” He bowed deeply, but his green eyes did not leave hers.

The man behind her cleared his throat in frustration, and addressed Dolokhov.

“Well, are you to dance with her, or am I?” he said.

Dolokhov narrowed his eyes at the man and smiled coldy. 

“I am sure the lady can speak for herself.”

Clara, fighting a smile, curtsied to the man, and said, nodding,

“I am spoken for.”

The man shook his head, turning to her. 

“He looks an absolute ruffian; he is probably dangerous, that one.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, I am counting on it.”

Dolokhov held out his arm, smiling genuinely now, and they walked to the floor.

“You must have arrived in Petersburg only hours ago,” she said, looking up at him, at the deep cut which disappeared into the corner of his eyes as they glittered down at her. 

“The rest of the men stopped to eat; but some of us came here, starved for society, instead. I was one of them; I had to see you.”

She returned his gaze; they were already being drawn into the familiar spell they cast on each other. 

It was extraordinary to feel him tall and breathing and here before her; his hand went around her waist, and she could feel the cold night air still clinging to the fabric of his jacket. 

They twirled apart with the dance, and came together again; this time, a little closer. This time, the slight hesitancy between them had evaporated.

“Then you must be hungry,” she said, a little breathlessly.

Dolokhov answered her with a kiss, and although it was quick, it was suggestive. She closed her eyes, losing herself briefly in it. He drew his lips from hers only to press them again to her jaw, his tongue flicking against her skin. 

“Ravenous,” he whispered in her ear.

Minutes earlier, the feel of being in his arms had overwhelmed her; now, their enforced distance of the past months had heightened their desire. 

They parted as the dance demanded, then a few paces later, swirled back together. The brief separation had bordered on torturous; the fire of their libidos had been stoked, and they found themselves pressing the length of their bodies together with eagerness.

This time, Clara felt the growing hardness of his arousal, and she looked into his eyes, which had grown to a darker shade of green. They were both losing their inhibition, and losing decorum along with it; his hand was low, very low, at her back, and her hand was no longer at his shoulder, but threaded through the hair at his neck. There was no space between them; she could feel his thighs move against hers as they danced. He smelled slightly of campfire, of the cold air, and of danger.

He was in smooth control, steering them through the steps, his arms both firm and tender, keeping her with him. She had a vague sense that whispers followed them at the edges of the floor; his reputation and the story of her giving up her fortune had made them the main object of gossip for the season. They had not been seen together for months, so she knew that the pair of them dancing here had ignited rumours all around them. Dolokhov must have been aware of the voices following them, but he only smiled down at her, and she smiled back; let people say what they would. 

Lust was coursing through her; she was hardly aware of her own feet, she was completely at the mercy of his guidance. She felt boneless, and desperate; her memory was awash with scenes from the past: his kisses, by turns fierce and gentle, his fingers teasing her into heavenly dissolution in an alcove, his tongue setting her on fire in a library. She half-wished he would twirl them straight against the wall and take her against it.

The music swept to a halt, and the dancers too. Dolokhov swept her back, dipping her, his head bent over her chest. She felt his lips touch the skin at the top of breast, the tips of his hair falling forward and tickling the bare skin there, and when he swept her back up in his arms, she was light-headed with desire. 

They stepped slightly apart, but had not stopped looking into each other’s eyes. Clara’s chest felt too restricted; she was drowning with need, it had overridden almost every other sense. 

_Take me, take me now,_ she thought, looking into his eyes.


	2. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara feels a bit reckless and gets more than she bargained for. 
> 
> Read: Dolokhov gives better than he gets. ;)
> 
> And all in a carriage!

Dolokhov was looking at her with open lust written across his features. They were both breathing hard, although the dance had not been a particularly lively one. He gave her a dark, hunter’s smile, and they drew together again without saying a word.

Clara felt as if there was nothing else in the world except this moment, this breathless, shared desire. The ballroom and the dancers around them were distorted and blurred. The only clear thing was the man in front of her, his strong chest under her fingers, his lower body warm and powerful against hers.

She was made entirely of longing: she wanted his mouth, soft and demanding, on her own, wanted his warm tongue on her skin, wanted his soldier’s hands caressing her body. 

Above all else: she wanted him inside her, stretching and filling her up, moving hard and deep within her, wanted to see his breath catch and his head thrown back in ecstasy. 

She leaned into him and exhaled lightly into the skin at his open collar, pressing a languid kiss there. She felt his hand clench at her waist. She murmured into his warm skin. 

"Take us away from here."

Then he had taken her hand, and he was leading them through the men and women on the dance floor. The candles were low, and as he looked back at her over his shoulder, his face was half in shadow in the dim ballroom. There was the flash of teeth when he smiled, a predatory gleam in the green eyes, and Clara almost stumbled with the hit of pure lust that swept through her. 

Sexual hunger was consuming them; he was leading their quick pace, Clara’s skirt was rustling in their haste, and still the room seemed endless. 

Faces turned in the dark towards them, whispering behind fans and turned profiles, and Clara felt Dolokhov give her hand a squeeze as they finally entered the grand foyer of the front entrance. He pulled her closer and whispered into her ear.

“There are carriages at the ready, if you still wish to take one.”

She nodded. She didn’t care where they went; she only wanted to be in his arms. Her wrap was fetched, the servants opened the tall double doors, and they tumbled out laughing into the crisp fall air.

Dolokhov helped her into the carriage, stepped up into it beside her, and the door was shut. A start of the horses, a quick jolt, and they were off. It was barely half a moment before they had turned to each other. His arms were around her, pulling her towards him, his mouth was on hers, and she sank desperately into the kiss. 

He was even more delicious than memory served: his tongue was easing into her mouth, his mustache was tickling the corners of her lips. He still smelled faintly of campfire, of cedar and pine and nights outdoors. She could feel his erection, hard and ready, pressing through the material of her dress. She rubbed against him, practically half in his lap, and he groaned into her mouth.

Clara could feel the barely restrained intensity behind the sweeping, deep strokes of his tongue. He kissed as if it was the only way to prove his love, as if it was the only language he could truly speak.

She was vaguely aware of rubbing herself up against him, undulating her hips; her body an impatient echo of her utter desperation for more. His hand had been stroking along her thighs, but he hitched his fingers gently behind her knee and guided her leg over and across him. He lifted her onto his lap so she sitting astride him, facing him.

It was thrilling; the demanding ache at her core was pressed against the hard length in his trousers. She leaned forward, and he was raining kisses onto her neck, her breast, speaking her name in a heated and low voice. 

“What spell is this you have cast on me?” whispered Dolokhov, pulling her even closer. “You have me enchanted.”

“Do you wish the enchantment to continue?” she said, into the soft waves of his hair, before pulling back and looking at him.

The green eyes surveyed her seriously, and she was struck, once again, how handsome he was; the straight nose, the fine forehead, the dark curls. The cut on his cheek only served to heighten his striking features, and she traced a gentle finger along it.

“I never want it to end,” was his reply, spoken as if a vow.

Following instinct, she rolled her hips into him; pressing against the straining hardness in his trousers, eliciting a tremor of pleasure and moan from them both.

“Clara.”

He spoke her name quick, and it was half-exhale.

She smiled, arched her back, and kept going. He gave in, and matched her for a few delicious, frantic moments, his hips thrusting up, then his hands gripped her waist, stilling her. He was searching her face; checking them both. 

“Do not start what we cannot finish.”

She leaned forward, kissing him long and slow and sweetly, before drawing back, resting her forehead against his.

“Perhaps I want you to finish.” She gave him another swivel of her hips.

She saw his pupils flare, felt the groan in his chest. 

"It has been a long campaign, Clara. You may be feeling playful, but I am not in the mood to be trifled with."

She was in a state of arousal beyond anything she had felt, and the utter bliss of having the reality of him here at her fingertips drove her to say, a bit recklessly, 

"Oh, but _I_ am."

His eyes widened in surprise, and she felt smug for a moment or two. Then, his features settled into a dangerous expression, and he gave her a slow, carnivorous smile. She felt her heart beat faster at the look in his eyes.

His hands traveled from her waist to where her dress was bunched at her knees, and moving his fingers underneath the material, he began stroking them softly along the skin on her inner thighs. Feather light brushes, higher and higher, circling up and _almost_, but not quite, touching her core. He was still smiling, his eyes narrowed.

"What is that you said?"

She tried to push herself forward, into his hand, but his other hand at her waist prevented it, and she moaned in frustration, her body throbbing. 

"Yes, I-"

Dolokhov brushed his knuckles innocently across her clit, there and gone with a whisper of a touch, and she let out an anguished whimper.

“I-”

She was panting, and she looked down at him, pleading.

He touched his thumb gently against her clit, and she cried out, pressing herself against him with desperation. He circled his thumb, teasing, and she thrust shamelessly against it, until he withdrew it again, tilting his head.

"You what?"

"Fedya," she whispered. Desire had overwhelmed her; she was aware in a distant way that she was a lady, that what she was implying was beyond anything she had ever seen herself doing. Another part of her realized that they were indeed, inside a carriage, with a driver and a footman that had excellent hearing, as far as she knew.

"The - carriage," 

"There is no carriage," he said, and slipped a finger inside her, and she was lost to pure, blinding pleasure. 

"There is only you," he added another finger, skillfully working her, the continued teasing of his thumb agonizing perfection. Clara felt herself on the brink of ecstasy, and cried out, as her release came rising up-

"And me," he whispered, suddenly withdrawing his fingers and moving her farther back on his lap. The loss was immediate and she felt it harshly; she gasped in short bursts. He held her firm, preventing her from moving, preventing her from accessing the friction she craved. She was a wreck; she was wet and moaning and rubbing against his leg shamelessly. 

He smiled, and kissed her lightly on her collarbone.

"What is it that you want, my darling? In need of more trifling?"

"I want you, I want-" she gasped, her words disjointed.

"No, not in English." He shook his head, mock stern. One hand kept her firmly in place, the other went to undo the button and laces of his trousers. His cock sprang free; erect and swollen.

"I-" she squirmed as he lifted her, but his iron grip kept her hovering slightly above him. His cock twitched as she tried desperately to sink down onto it. 

"Please, I, please-" she panted, barely able to form a coherent thought beyond the need that engulfed her. 

"I can't understand you, Clara. In Russian."

She was almost sobbing with frustration. 

She moved her hips within his grip, uselessly back and forth above his cock, and a part of her was pleased to register that despite his teasing, his teeth were clenched. 

"I want, I need-"

He was in control, but barely; sweat was beading the bridge of his nose; the cords of his neck were standing out. Her hips swiveled again and his own lifted up helplessly in response, the tip of his cock brushing against her wet centre. He stifled his own groan through a gritted smile.

"In Russian, Clara, tell me what you need-"

She fixed him with a furious glare; and her desperation burst. Her brain connected with the words she needed, and she said, in rapid Russian,

"I want you to have me, right now-"

His eyes flashed, his grip changed, and his hands loosened just enough to guide her onto him; he was sheathed inside her, and Clara let out a keening, blissful sound of relief. Out of patience, his hips surged in one powerful thrust up. One of his hands fisted and hit the fabric of the seat beside him; he threw his head back against the seat and he let out a low and rapid stream of cursing in Russian.

She began to move, and he groaned and swallowed, magnificent and wild beneath her. The carriage lurched around a corner; she slammed down onto him, and she cried out in delight. 

His eyes were on her, burning, and he licked his lips, giving her an utterly depraved smile. One hand went between them to her core, and his thumb began to move, circling and pressing gently. She bucked wildly, eyes screwed tight against pure sensation. Clara was letting out breathless, punctuated cries; Dolokhov was breathing heated grunts into her neck as he thrust faster, one arm still around her, keeping them together as they moved. 

Her eyes had been screwed shut, but she opened them; he was half-off the carriage seat, sweat plastered his hair to his temples, and his eyes were on her, full of complete and transparent adoration. She was losing all awareness beyond that rush of pleasure she was chasing; she felt it building, sparking; felt it hovering for a single unbearable moment, before _yes_, it rushed in at her, and her short cries of pleasure turned into a half-scream of delight. 

She rode him for a few more moments, and she felt his whole body tense, saw him bite his lip and shout her name, felt his release pumping into her. 

A few more thrusts and Dolokhov leaned back against the seat, his arm still keeping her with him. Clara rested her forehead on the seat behind him. He kissed her neck, their breathing calming as aftershocks of pleasure shook through them. She was becoming aware of the carriage rolling along, the small jolts and shocks of the road suddenly sharply noticeable. A particularly large bump almost had Clara hit her head, but Dolokhov had her firmly in his arms. She laughed, then swung her leg back and sat back down properly. Her dress had wrinkled into an unrecognizable mess, and she readjusted it with as much care as she could as Dolokhov tucked himself back into his pants. He shot her a boyish grin, and she returned it, curling into his side and looking up at him. 

"I had not thought loving somebody could be like this," she said, stroking the sweaty hair away from his forehead.

"Neither had I," he said, his smile tender and soft in the way he saved solely for her. 

"Earlier, at the dance, Natasha showed us her library, and all I could think of was the last time I had set foot in a library - with you."

He laughed.

"I will readily admit that thoughts of that afternoon carried me through quite a few bleak moments on the campaign. Thoughts of _you_ carried me through."

He grew serious, and looked right at her. 

"You still want a scandalous Russian captain as your husband, then."

His words were nonchalant, but as usual, his eyes betrayed him; there was vulnerability in them. 

She stroked his face, and pressed gentle kisses to his brow, his nose, the cut on his cheek, the scar that pulled his upper lip into a smirk. 

"I would settle for no other man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right - so - I think the carriage would be filled with quite a few more jolts than these two experienced. And how low are the roofs on those things? Plus, they're not using any kind of protection, but they're engaged, and it's 1820s Russia, so forgive me on the lack of condoms. Lol.


End file.
